We start moving, slower and more deliberate. Rverre stays between Illadon and Korr, guided by their quiet adjustments. I bring up the rear, watching for the moment she drifts again—because I am certain that she will.
The ground turns against us by degrees.
Stone fractures into uneven plates that tilt underfoot, sand pooling between them like traps waiting to swallow a careless step. Every shift in terrain sends a sharp reminder through my ankle—manageable, I tell myself. Temporary. I adjust my stride, shorten it, redistribute weight. I can do this.
Korr slows.
Not by much, but enough that the rhythm we’d settled into falters. He angles us east, toward a longer stretch of broken rock that promises firmer footing and marginal cover. I see it and understand the logic, but I also know we don’t have time.
“Korr,” I say quietly, moving closer so my voice doesn’t carry. “That’s not the shortest path.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s the safer one.”
“It adds distance.”
“It reduces strain.”
I stop walking. He takes two more steps before realizing I’m no longer behind him. He turns, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in calculation.
“My ankle isn’t the variable we should be optimizing for,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “It is if it fails.”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I insist, though my ankle throbs in sharp disagreement. “If we keep adjusting for me, we’ll be out here longer. More heat cycles. More exposure. That’s worse for everyone.”
Rverre’s hum falters, pitch wavering as if the tension itself has disrupted her balance. Korr steps closer to me, lowering his voice.
“This isn’t ego.”
“Neither is this,” I snap softly. “It’s triage.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes flicking to my stance, my weight distribution, the way my fingers curl reflexively when pain spikes. I hate that he sees it. Hate that part of me wants him to stop.
“If we don’t adjust,” he says evenly, “you won’t make it.”
“And if we do,” I counter, “none of us might.”
The silence between us stretches—tight, brittle. Illadon shifts uneasily. Rverre presses her palm to the ground, wings twitching.
“She’s upset,” Rverre says quietly. Not accusation. Observation.
“I’m not upset,” I say too quickly.
Korr doesn’t call me on the lie. He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and looks back at the terrain.
“We split the difference,” he says at last. “We take the direct line for now. If your gait changes?—”
“It won’t.”
“—if it does,” he continues, unyielding, “we divert immediately. No argument.”
I nod once, relief and frustration tangling in my chest. He turns away, leading us back onto the harsher path. I follow, jaw clenched, grateful and resentful in equal measure.
There’s no resolution between us, only a fragile compromise held together by necessity. And I can feel it now, humming between us that this is no longer just about terrain. It’s about who decides when survival becomes sacrifice.
